Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (7 page)

 
          
“Oughta
shot the coyote,” Pete said.

 
          
“Well,
mebbe he was lucky thataway,” the other conceded. “They just took his clothes
off, poured a barrel o’ molasses over him, rolled him in the sand, an’ rid him
outa town on a rail. It oughta been a complete cure.”

 
          
Pardoe
was facing Bordene and the latter was astounded at the sudden flush on the
gambler’s bilious face and the vindictive look he cast at the speaker. In a
second, however, his eyes were on his cards again. Andy glanced at Raven, but
the saloonkeeper’s features were an expressionless mask. All at once he looked
up.

 
          
“Sit
in, marshal,” he invited.

 
          
Green
shook his head. “I’m on duty,” he said, and smiled.

 
          
“Huh!
It’s
quiet to-night—there’ll be nothin’ startin’,”
Raven replied.

 
          
“Just
the time to watch out,” the officer said.

 
          
Even
as he spoke, the door of the saloon was thrust open and a wild figure sprang
in.

 
          
Snaky
black hair hung beneath the pushed-back hat, bloodshot eyes glared behind the
levelled six-shooter, and a snarling mouth showed teeth like yellow fangs. For
an instant the man stood, his head turning from side to side as he surveyed the
room, and then he let out a savage screech; most of the hearers knew it for the
Apache war-cry.

 
          
“I
want a man,” he shouted. “I ain’t killed one to-day, an’ I’m that pizenous that
when rattlers bite me they crawl away an’ die. Where’s this yer marshal I bin
hearin’ about?”

 
          
Green
noted furtive smiles on some of the faces. Had this fellow been primed with
drink and put up to this silly prank to try the new officer out? Such a notion
was quite in keeping with Western humour, and if the fool forgot that it was a
joke… He stepped forward.

 
          
“Yu
wantin’me?” he asked quietly.

 
          
Silence
fell upon the room; the flip of cards and the rattle of poker chips ceased; the
hum of conversation died out; everyone was intent on what was taking place. The
moment Green had spoken the stranger froze, his gun covering the marshal’s
broad chest. The latter, making no attempt to draw
his own
weapon, advanced until a bare three yards separated the pair.

 
          
“Git
down an’ say yore prayers,” the intruder ordered. “I’m Wild Bill Hickok, an’ a
shootin’ fool. I’m agoin’ to send yu down the Long Trail.”

 
          
The
marshal’s laugh rang out. “Yore name’s ‘Hiccup’ an’ yo’re a shoutin’ fool.
Now”—with a speed that baffled the eye his gun swept up, the muzzle within a
few inches of the one covering him—“shoot, yu false alarm!”

 
          
As
though dazed by a blow the ruffian glared at him. How it had come about he did
not know, but he realized that he had been outplayed. To fire now would be suicide;
he might slay the marshal but assuredly before he did so, lead would be tearing
through his own body. At the thought his nerve failed. Green saw the indecision
in his eyes.

 
          
“Drop
it,” he rasped, and there was more than an order in the words.

 
          
For
a second the fellow hesitated, and then the gun clattered on the board floor.
At the same instant the marshal’s left fist came round and up, landing on the
jaw with all the force of his body behind it; the man dropped like a pole-axed
steer. Sheathing his gun, Green set the door open, and gripping the senseless
one by neck and belt, flung him headlong into the street.

 
          
“If
that fella’s got any friends here they’d better tell him to hit the trail ‘bout
daylight,” he said, and walked back to the bar.

 
          
Pete
Barsay sat on a tilted chair, his back against one jamb of the marshal’s office
door and his upraised feet on the other. Green had gone riding somewhere, and
to lighten his solitude Pete sang as he rolled himself a smoke:

 
          
An’
speakin’ o’ women, yu never can tell. Sometimes
they’s
heaven, an’ sometimes they’s…

 
          
“Oh,
sir!” reproved a low, sweet voice, before he could complete the verse.

 
          
The
vocalist’s heels thumped the floor and he grabbed his hat from his head as he
swung round to face the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Her smile added to his
confusion.

 
          
“What
is the name of that song?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

 
          
The
deputy was not surprised at this, but he did not say so. Instead, he lied
nobly. “I dunno, ma’am; that’s all of it I ever learned my own self.” He
grinned with returning courage. “I guess I’ll have to leave that last bit out
when yo’re around.”

 
          
“I’m
afraid you are a flatterer, Mister—?” the girl said.

 
          
“My
name’s
Barsay,
an’ my friends call me Pete,” he
volunteered. “I’m bettin’ yo’re Miss Tonia Sarel.”

 
          
“You
win,” she replied. “Do you sing much?”

 
          
Pete
regarded her with a suspicious eye, but save for a distracting dimple, she
seemed quite serious. “I do not,” he confessed. “Speakin’ general, I on’y inflicts
my vocal efforts on longhorns when they’re a-beddin’ down. Mebbe yu’d call it
cruelty to animals, but cows ain’t noways critical, an’ my voice ain’t started
a stampede yet. Won’t yu set down?”

 
          
“I
just called to see the marshal,” she said. “I suppose he is busy?”

 
          
“Not
so as yu’d notice it,” Pete said gloomily. “The durned town is dead—nothin’
happens.

 
          
Ever
since me an’ the marshal took office”—he grinned pridefully at the
phrase—“folks here has been asleep. Yu’d think we were keepin’ Sunday school.
I’m tellin’ yu, we got this town so tame we’ll be losin’ our jobs. If suthin’
don’t bust loose soon—”

 
          
He
broke off suddenly as a rider dashed into view at the western end of the town.
Bent low in the saddle, he was almost invisible in the clouds of dust which
rose beneath the hammering hoofs of his horse. Barsay thrust the girl inside
the door.

 
          
“That
gent has pressin’ business with somebody, an’ mebbe it’s me,” he apologized.

 
          
“Bullets
ain’t got
no
respect for beauty.”

 
          
It
appeared that he was correct in his surmise, for on reaching the marshal’s
office, the rider pulled down his panting pony and leapt off. Barsay then saw
that it was Andy Bordene, his face grimed with dust and perspiration, drawn and
haggard, his eyes wild.

 
          
“Where’s
the marshal?” he cried hoarsely.

 
          
At
that moment Green came up, having just turned his mount into the Red Ace
corral.

 
          
“Who
wants me?” he asked, and then, recognizing the young rancher. “What’s the
trouble, Bordene?”

 
          
“Dad’s
been shot—murdered!”
came
the broken answer. “Marshal,
I want yu to help me find the dog
who
did it.”

 
          
With
a pitiful cry Tonia ran to the side of the stricken boy, striving to comfort as
she forced him to sit down, for the shock and subsequent punishing ride had
taken a heavy toll and he was all in. Green slipped into the saloon and came
back with a glass.

 
          
“Drink
this, and then tell us about it,” he said.

 
          
The
raw spirit gave Andy strength and steadied his shattered nerves. After a moment
or two he looked up, and in a dull monotone, told his story.

 
          
“Dad
started for town early this mornin’,” he began. “I suppose he got here?”

 
          
“Yeah.
I saw him myself, goin’ into the bank,” Green told
him.

 
          
The boy.
nodded
. “He told me he was
drawin’ some money an’ he intended to come back pretty prompt,” Andy said. “I
set out for Lawless ‘bout two hours later, an’ when I got to the Old Mine I
found him lyin’ in the trail. His hoss was grazing close by, an’ at first I
thought he’d been pitched or had
a sunstroke
. Then I
saw the blood—he’d been shot in the back. Just as I stooped over him, he opened
his eyes, said one word, an’ was—gone.”

 
          
His
voice tailed away to a whisper, and as he finished his head dropped
despairingly.

 
          
Tonia’s
arm pressed his shoulders in silent sympathy. She knew how he felt; she herself
had faced the same tragic happening.

 
          
“What
was the word?” the marshal asked.

 
          
“Sudden,”
was the reply. “That damned outlaw has bushwhacked my dad for a few paltry
dollars. Marshal, we gotta get him; I’ll never rest till—” His voice rose
hysterically as he strove to stand up. Green pressed him back into his seat.

 
          
“We’ll
get him, sooner or later,” he promised, and his voice was stern. “Yu stay with
Miss Tonia till we fetch our bosses.”

 
          
They
returned in a few moments to find Andy sitting tight-lipped, his dull gaze
staring into vacancy. The girl stood silently by, her eyes filled with the
tears she would not shed until the bereaved boy had gone. Clasping her two
hands in his—he could not trust himself to speak—Andy mounted his pony and the
three men set out for the scene of the tragedy, first calling at the bank,
where they learned that the murdered man had drawn out five thousand dollars.

 
          
Slumped
in his saddle, Bordene led the way at a fast lope. The shock of this, his first
real rebuff in life, had driven the youthfulness from his face, leaving a
grimness mingled with the grief. The marshal and his deputy followed in
silence.

 
          
Less
than an hour’s riding brought them to the Old Mine, a little group of low,
rocky mounds shrouded in small timber and brush through which the trail passed.
A saddled horse was tied to a tree, but there was no body.

 
          
“I
carried him into that hut,” Bordene explained, pointing to a rude cabin at the
foot of one of the hillocks, the pathway to which was almost obscured by undergrowth.

 
          
Pushing
their way through they came upon the murdered man. Green stopped and made a
quick examination. “Shot in the back—twice,” he said. “An’ the cash is missin’,
though there is some small change in the pockets; a Greaser wouldn’t ‘a’ left
that.” He rose and looked round.

 
          
Two
shining objects attracted his attention—used shells. “Forty-fives,” he
commented, slipping them into the pocket of his chaps.
“Pistol-work.
Whereabout did yu find him, Andy?”

 
          
The
young man pointed to where a bit of the trail lay in plain view, and Green
began to examine the floor of the hut, which was of packed sand. Presently he
stood up.

 
          
“I
figure it was this way,” he said. “The bushwhacker hid in here by the door—yu
can see the marks of his heels—an’ when the old man passed, he got him. Musta
waited some time too, for he smoked three cigarettes.” He picked up the ends
and broke one open. “Good Bull Durham,” he added, sniffing the tobacco. “No
Mexican trash. We gotta find where he left his hoss.”

 
          
“What’s
the use of all this, marshal?” broke in Bordene querulously. “We know who did
it.”